


Intimacy

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock arranges a date with Lestrade (then stands him up).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

Sherlock finds that intimacy - like age - creeps up on you slowly, and usually unbidden. It's rare for him, rarer than for most people and when it happens he always finds there is a moment, a sort of pivotal minute, when he can choose to accept or reject it. 

Though of course there is never just _the moment;_ there is always something preceding it, the road up to the fork point at which he has to choose.

He travels that preceding road with less consideration than he gives to his final decision though - the illusion of intimacy is much easier to handle than intimacy itself.

\--------

Lestrade is aware it's happening, could hardly believe it at first but he's not blind or stupid and he's been in this position before. Granted, he hasn't felt like _this_ since Hannah, but he knows the process from university and the slightly less adult arena of school, and he knows how it works - you don't _mean_ to get close to someone, but it's like the pull of a magnet, gently and slowly until you realise you can't stay away.

He never imagined it would be with Sherlock, but then... well, if he's being honest he never really thought he'd give much time to relationships again. When you lose someone the way he lost Hannah, putting her in the ground and then lowering the tiny, unborn coffin directly on top, you don't imagine you'll ever want any of that again.

And he didn't, until Sherlock.

\-------

Lestrade starts coming to him even when there isn't a case. At first it's for simple things, like the consultation on a psychological profile of their last killer, something to add to the file, get him those few extra years with pre-meditated so that he's behind bars that little bit longer. Then it's just to talk, or listen when neither of them can sleep because what they've seen is so gruesome and they're the only two in the world who can't forget it. Sherlock starts sensing the danger, the encroachment of space, but he likes it so he lets it go.

Lestrade is amusing. When he says he's Scotland Yard's finest, Sherlock isn't lying. He respects the man, as much as one can ever respect a member of a body as utterly flawed and riddled with malfunction such as the police. 

And in truth he likes his peaceful, quiet mind. Lestrade is sure of who he is, worn down in places by the things he's seen and lived but essentially he's whole. Sherlock has grudging respect for that, because it's something he has never had. He sometimes sits with him in the quiet of the flat and tries to match the long, deep pull of Lestrade's breathing, just to try to catch some of his peace.

\-------

It's not just the brain, it's something else. 

Yes, of course it's the intelligence, the sharpness, the unexpected wit, but it's also the odd fascinations, the way he gets so caught up in the smallest of things. One night when Lestrade goes to visit they spend an hour going over the simple way Mycroft brushes at the corner of his mouth when he speaks - Sherlock tells Lestrade everything it means, all the things he's hiding when he does it. It's fascinating. And now whenever Mycroft sweeps into his office to requisition some piece of police information or other, Lestrade always watches him brush at the corner of his mouth and knows it means he's feeling out of control.

Sherlock picks up on all of these things, and Lestrade wonders about the inside of his brain, the filing system he must operate for all of his thoughts. He's in awe of it, just slightly, and he wants to be around it, the way moths want to be around lights in the dark. When he's in flight with some case or some plan, Sherlock's like some spinning Catherine Wheel of energy, and Lestrade can't take his eyes off him. 

\-------

It's the eighteenth night in a row that they have spent together (Sherlock has been counting) and they are both quite comfortable on the sofa. He notices physical touches like lightbulb flashes in his head and tonight there have already been six, more than usual and more obvious. He doesn't mind, in fact he leaned into the last one, so when Sherlock feels fingers push idly into his hair, he shifts back, allows himself the distraction of the sensation.

"Will you come in to look at the case tomorrow?" Lestrade asks, his fingers tangling in the soft curls, making Sherlock want to purr like a cat.

"I will if you keep doing that," he says, unashamed. Surprised, he hears Lestrade give a little huff of laughter, then his body is being pulled closer and Sherlock moves, too distracted to hold himself back.

"That nice?" Lestrade whispers, as Sherlock feels the lightness of fingernails being traced along his scalp. This is intimacy, but it's not that deciding moment yet. Not yet. So he lets it go on.

"Hmmm. Don't stop," Sherlock mutters, and when he leans back further against Lestrade's chest, he can feel a frantic heartbeat below.

\-------

He wants to kiss him. Lestrade sort of hates himself for it, but he does. He keeps seeing those lips and wondering what they'd be like, whether Sherlock would be a good kisser. He supposes he would; the smug bastard is good at everything else.

He's lost track of how long it's been since he's gone straight home after work (two weeks? More?) but they seem to talk less now, end up touching more.

Quite the opposite of being the frigid, cold specimen he initially imagined him to be, Lestrade has discovered that as long as he's the centre of attention, Sherlock doesn't mind be touched at all. He likes his hair stroked, and his neck rubbed, and sometimes Lestrade goes home with the ends of his fingers tingling from the friction of skin brushing skin all evening. He doesn't mind though, it's nice.

"Don't you ever get bored without a flatmate?" Lestrade asks, depositing two cups of tea onto the table, dropping to the sofa. As soon as he does, Sherlock drapes his legs over his lap, lying lengthways on the sofa. Obediently, Lestrade starts rubbing. His calves are pale and thin but perfect, like the rest of him.

"Bored?" Sherlock asks, as though the notion is preposterous, then lifts his head from the arm of the sofa and grins at him. "Besides, I've got you, haven't I?"

Lestrade lets his fingers stray down, to the hollow backs of Sherlock's knee and strokes there carefully. They spend the rest of the hour in silence.

\-------

He sees it coming, of course, but these things take time, and he's not about to rush it. Something will happen, and Sherlock will have to make a choice - he's encountered it before. He waits patiently; Mycroft always says he has no patience, but when it comes to some things Sherlock knows that he just has to let things play out, take a back seat.

It's building slower than usual, but he can't say he's not enjoying it - he is. When he comes to making his choice this time, it will be more difficult than it has been in the past. He sometimes thinks that he _wants_ that level of intimacy, but just can't give it. There's too little room in his mind for someone else, all their thoughts and feelings and considerations. His brain has too much 'me'.

Sherlock knows that it's real this time though, because one night Lestrade is busy with work, doesn't make it round and it seems like the longest night of Sherlock's life.

When the doorbell eventually does go, he senses something has shifted inside him - it's getting closer to decision time.

"Do you want a fork or chopsticks?" Lestrade calls from the kitchen as Sherlock sets the Chinese cartons out on the table. Instead of shouting, he follows the voice, finds Lestrade paused in mid air, waiting for his answer.

In reply, Sherlock goes up behind him, slips his hands on firm hips. He fits their bodies snuggly together. It feels nice.

"Um... chopsticks," he replies slowly, speaking the words against the back of Lestrade's neck. He feels him shiver in response.

Neither of them move for a good long moment.

When they do, Sherlock knows it's coming soon. He really hates deciding.

\-------

"You know, there's a place that does gorgeous Chinese at the end of my road.," Lestrade says, putting food into his mouth to hide his embarrassment. They're eating out of cartons in Sherlock's living room, and he can still feel the ghost of Sherlock pressed against his back.

"Is there?" Sherlock asks, giving nothing.

"Yeah," he replies. "Maybe... maybe we should go there one night. Together."

It hangs in the air for a second, heavy like a spectre, slowing the time.

Then Sherlock nods. "Yes, alright."

"Next week?" Lestrade suggests, knowing his cheeks are coloured with the rush. "They do a special on a Friday night. About half seven?"

Sherlock nods again. "Sounds good."

\-------

Though he knows it's coming, somehow still it always takes him by surprise. This time it's an invite to a restaurant - how mundane, how pedestrian, how average. He knows if he says yes he's committing himself to something, if not to 'forever', then to 'for now' at least.

He's not sure he can even do that. 

He says yes on the spur of the moment - _wants_ to. But in the days afterwards he starts to regret it. Can he really? He's not sure. 

Intimacy is so demanding, after all.

\------

He buys a new shirt.

It's stupid, he knows, because Sherlock will probably recognise it's new within moments and draw all kinds of conclusions about how much this means. But Lestrade can't bring himself to care - it _does_ mean something. He doesn't do this lightly, not since Hannah.

So he buys the shirt, even gives it an iron. He feels like a stupid teenager showering through a haze of nerves, opening a bottle for a little dutch courage and then cutting himself shaving because of his shaking hands.

His stomach churns with the butterflies. He thought he was too old for this.

\------

Sherlock doesn't go.

He lies on the sofa in a stupor at half seven, watching the time come and go. He glances guiltless at the clock - better Lestrade find out now, sooner rather than later. 

He can't be relied upon, not to give his time, anyway. Anything but his time.

He spends the evening playing his violin, listening to the quiet of the flat.

\------

Lestrade waits.

He knows Sherlock is unpredictable, so he gives him until nine o'clock, but then the waiters want the table, so he has to give it up.

He spends until half nine in the bar, one eye on the door, then sits outside in the cold until ten. Just in case.

Something stings inside his chest - not the fact that the entire resturant has seen him be stood up, not the fact that his stupid new shirt itches and scratches at the back of his neck like a reminder, but the fact he got it wrong.

He really believed him. 

Lestrade thought if he waited long enough, Sherlock would come.

He doesn't think he's ever felt any stupider than that.

\------

They never mention it afterwards, either of them. Lestrade still feels a blush of embarrassment when he thinks about it, about how long he sat there like a fool, and Sherlock still wonders what would have happened had he gone.

Some days, he really wishes he had.

"Is there, um... Is there something going on between you and our good Inspector, then?" John asks, nearly two years later. He's new, it's the first time he's seeing it but Sherlock _had_ thought he'd papered over the cracks. Apparently not.

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock replies. 

But some days he _really_ wishes he'd gone.


End file.
